He’s right. I don’t like things that I don’t automatically know how to do. I shirk off trying anything new. I won’t even stray on the menu at Tommy’s, sticking strictly to hot dogs and never once trying the Italian beef.
“Fine, we can look under the hood or whatever,” I mutter like a petulant child, dragging my body forward to join my friend at the front of the Bronco—my Bronco. A gift from my dad’s grave, from my mom and grandfather’s hearts. All I can think about is how I wish it wasn’t mine.
“You’re gonna need this.” My grandfather joins us in the garage, heading right toward me. He stops to press my dad’s notebook against my bicep.
“Thanks,” I say, taking it in my palm.
He winks at me when I glance up to meet his gaze.
“Your dad was always meticulous about his tools, so I imagine everything you need is in those cabinets.” He nods toward the far wall of the garage, to the dusty metal doors that haven’t been opened in a year, at least.
Jake walks over to crack the doors open, and I wonder if he somehow knows I can’t bring myself to do it. Those tools are one more part of my dad that I never got to know. He used them years before I was in the picture, and the times he broke them out while I was alive were few and far between, and usually to repair broken things around the house.
“Wow. Talk about a labeling freak,” my friend says.
Grandpa chuckles, seeming to know what Jake is referring to. Curious, I walk over and peer over his shoulder to find the familiar handwriting on strips of white tape lined across peg boards and various drawers of hardware. I’d bet that every size is exactly where it should be.
“Yo, this reminds me of your chemistry labs. Nerds don’t fall far from the tree.” My friend gently pokes me with his elbow into my gut. I rub the spot and breathe out a laugh. He’s right. I did get my dad’s penchant for over-organization.
I’m not sure what makes me turn—perhaps it’s my grandfather’s lack of response to Jake’s needling—but when I do, I see what has him tongue-tied.
Eleanor looks like a ghost, her skin pale and eyes sunk deep in their wells. She reminds me of my mom in the days after my dad died, spent from crying and void of light. Eleanor leans against the frame of the garage entry like a lost dog desperate for food and shelter but terrified to trust any hand willing to feed it. My eyes blink wildly as I scan the scene behind her, expecting to see flashes from cameras and reporters scrambling to fire up their mics to get a sound bite from one of the Trombleys. Nobody seems to have seen her cross the street. Perhaps they don’t care, or are biding their time to make sure any interview they get with her really counts.
“H- Uhm, hi.” I gulp. I’d probably react this way under any circumstance that brought Eleanor Trombley into my garage, but the experience over the last thirty-six hours has my grandfather temporarily lost for words too.
“Hey.” Her voice is weak and raspy, that of a girl who probably hasn’t slept since she was up all night partying after homecoming two days ago.
“Hi.” I repeat my initial response, a little clearer. It sounds as lame as it did the first time. I’m not sure whether I should smile or wear a somber expression. Should I give her condolences? Apologize, or offer to help out? Those are things people say in circumstances like this. Should I—
“How are you doing, Elle?”
Of course, Jake knows her better than I do. I sink back on my heels and dip my hands into the pockets of my jeans.
She lifts the shoulder that isn’t leaning against the wall in a response to my friend as he steps closer, opening his arms to give her a hug. She moves from her sheltered space and wraps her arms around him in slow motion, as if her limbs are too heavy to lift. Her dead eyes lock on mine as they hug.
Grandpa clears his throat, and I’m not sure whether it’s to jar me out of my trance or hide his own insecurities over not knowing what to do.
“We’re all really sorry for your family,” Grandpa finally utters, managing to pull himself together. “You . . . you wanna come in, sweetheart?”
His words are endearing, without the chauvinist tinge my mom always scolds him about. They’re flavored by his age and a sincere worry that weighs down his eyes. He pulls a folding chair from the stack we keep against the wall for his card games he sets up in the garage on Thursdays so him and his old army buddies can smoke without my mom losing her mind.
“Oh, uhm . . .” Eleanor glances behind her toward her still house and the quiet media trucks. Some of the police tape has come loose from the cones the officers set up earlier today and it twists in the wind. She and I both stare at it for a few quiet seconds. I break first, moving my gaze to her. I’m suddenly overcome with a deep understanding of exactly how she feels.
Out of place. Lost, and unsure.
Like me, most of the time.
“I got a car. Well, a truck. A Bronco. I’m not sure what you classify it as. A sport utility? It was my dad’s, and it doesn’t run yet. It used to. Sort of, but . . . well.” I nervously vomit out words.
Both my friend’s and my grandpa’s eyes are on me, probably oozing pity while they mentally shout at me to shut the hell up. I keep my focus on Eleanor, though, her attention jerked from the chaos behind her the moment I speak. Her pouty lips hold open as she stares at me, and it’s hard to tell whether they want to smile or quiver with a bottled-up cry.
This is the most I have ever said to her at once, and nothing about it was eloquent. Eleanor is not the kind of girl who makes fun of people on the fringes of high school social circles, though. And even if she were, now would not be the time. I’m a distraction. I have a job to do.
“It was a birthday gift,” I continue. I glance to my left and am hit with my grandpa’s now encouraging eyes. He nods for me to go on while stepping closer to Eleanor, his palm outstretched to guide her to the green metal chair he set up against the wall.
I look back to Eleanor and her head tilts to one side.
“Is today . . . your birthday?” Her eyes wrinkle, as if my birthday is something she’s supposed to know, a date circled on her calendar.
Her arm stretched out toward Grandpa Hank, she lets him play the part of gentleman and take her to her seat. The sight of it tickles me for some reason, and my mouth smiles on one side.
“Happy birthday,” she says, and I realize I never answered her.
“Oh, thanks. I mean, it’s next weekend, but that counts, I guess.”
“Pshhh, dumbass,” Jake mumbles, flicking the back of my head as he crosses the space behind me and moves to pop the hood. It’s not as if my friend and I sit around and talk about crushes, but it’s impossible to live where I do and not let my attraction to Eleanor Trombley slip out a time or two over the years. At one point during freshman year, Jake offered to make an introduction at a bonfire after a big football game. Instead of going to the party though, I decided to stay home and get ahead on my advanced English reading for the semester.
My cheeks flame in embarrassment after Jake’s teasing, but when I glance back to Eleanor, she’s laughing at my expense, and I don’t really mind. It isn’t the kind of laugh that comes with sound, but her shoulders shake and her eyes slit with the fullness of her cheeks. It’s a brief reprieve from the ghost that showed up wearing her skin.